


New Member

by stagfriend



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stagfriend/pseuds/stagfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not gay to lend a companion a hand. God knows worse has happened in the Wastes, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Member

  
You’ve seen a lot of shit on your travels. A lot of gruesome shit, disturbing shit, and downright pathetic shit too. It’s safe to say this sight falls into the last category.

Even though he’s always been an asshole to you, it’s sad to see him in this state. It offers little to no redemption on your part, no satisfaction or feelings of revenge. It’s just sad. He looks like his mother, and that’s a fate you wouldn’t wish upon anybody - not even the asshole of a son she raised.

The shithole he’s holed up in pretty much reflects his condition - cold, sort of broken in places, and scented pleasantly with cheap and stale booze, and the further you drift through it, the more lonely and overwhelming the environment becomes.

You occupy the seat next to him, and notice he's still sporting that goddamn leather jacket from all those years ago, back when Tunnel Snakes were the hottest shit going. The colours are a little faded, and the regular wrinkles of well loved leather are apparent, but it still fits him just as well as it did five years prior.

"DeLoria." You say, voice firm, loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough for others to pry. "Long time no see."

He doesn't even turn at first. You don't blame him.

When you opened up 101, he trailed out after sheepishly, slinking into the shadows as soon as he could. You paid him no mind, because he was utterly irrelevant to you. You had bigger fish to fry, more important things to do than take an ungrateful brat under your wing. He hadn't said a word to you, and you liked it that way - the less you knew, the less you felt about the situation. If he started telling you his plans, the compassion in you would most likely stir, and you'd at least wonder if he managed to fulfil them, and at worst check up on him to see if he had.

After such a cold parting shot, it comes as no surprise to you that he's blowing you off. It does still piss you off, however.

"DeLoria." You repeat, snapping your fingers in a slightly patronising manner. He graces that with a disinterested grunt. Progress.

"I know you can hear me. Don't be an asswipe." It's like talking to a stubborn child, and, to be frank, you still herald him as such. "At least look at me."

Begrudgingly, he turns his face to you, and God, he looks even worse than you thought he could. Split, dry lips, a deep bruise blooming over his eye, and a scowl sour enough to freak a feral ghoul all culminate to make a guy that screams "don't fuck with me". You suppose a long ass trek to Rivet City toughens a man. Hell, it toughened you.

"Shit, Butch, what happened?" You murmur in something akin to concern, eyes scanning over him. He shrugs, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a touch more gravelly than you remember.

"Raiders. Lost the rest of the Snakes in the fight."

"Oh, fuck. I'm sorry." It's a piss poor attempt at comfort, and you know it, but he nods in acceptance anyway. "I mean-"

"Save it. If you really wanna help out, get a guy a drink." He cuts in curtly, motioning towards his now empty glass. It's really no skin off your ass to fork out a few caps for some swill - he looks like he needs it. When the liquor touches his lips he looks more relaxed, and you venture another question.

"Staying here a while?"

"As long as they'll take me." is his answer. "After that, I'm boned. Ain't got the caps to get around no place, y'know?" You nod. Getting by in the Capital Wasteland without a cap to your name is pretty difficult, unless you have a pretty face and a silver tongue. You guess he has a better chance of swinging it than most in those respects.

"I managed." You say, but you strongly suspect that it's because you've always been a keen gunman, which Butch clearly isn't. His scoff confirms.

“Yeah, and you were snipin’ radroaches since you were a goddamned thirteen year old, man.” he raises a thick eyebrow as he says it, as if he’s pissed at the fact. You only offer a shrug in response. Not really your fault that your father wanted to equip you for life and his mother had more interest in seeing how fast she could get to the bottom of a bottle.

Ouch. You’re glad you didn’t say that out loud.

“It’s whatever. I got here in one damn piece, I’m sure I can do it again if I gotta, BB gun or not.” As he speaks, you notice the pistol in his holster. He got to Rivet City using a measly pistol? Fuck, maybe DeLoria has a little more marksmanship in him than you presumed. He’d maybe even make a good asset, if he proves himself - sure, you’ll have to sacrifice half your water, food and ammo supply, and a good chunk of your pride too, but it would be good to have extra backup. It always is. You just need an angle that appeals to him, because as far as Butch is concerned, he has everything he wants right here: liquor and a roof over his head.

“Hey, Butch?” You’re tentative at first, aware you’re treading on thin ice with the direction you’re about to take this in. You press on once you’ve secured his attention. “How do you feel about starting up a new gang?”  
He laughs in dismissal, and to say you’re taken aback would be an understatement. The way he spoke to you in the vault… He sounded like he idolised you and your new, self-forged lifestyle. As a result, you’d figured that he’d want to join you in that right off the bat, and you can’t fathom what is putting him off-

“There ain’t no new gang, rookie. The Tunnel Snakes rule, and they ain’t goin’ down yet. Not if the leader’s still at it. Welcome to the Snakes.”

Oh. Well, you’ll take it. You stick out your hand in an honest handshake, and when he grasps your palm securely, you’re a little concerned at just how much the feeling of his rough skin against yours makes you grin.


End file.
